


Goat Fever

by LeGC



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas is cute for an angel, Castiel/Dean Winchester possible pre-slash, Dean is a beautiful human being, Gen, Goats, It says it's crack but it isn't exactly, M/M, Sam is a wierdo, Sharks on the Discovery Channel, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeGC/pseuds/LeGC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s pissed as Hell. And he’s been to Hell, so he’s not even exaggerating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goat Fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirmaha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirmaha/gifts).



> A fic wherein Dean is angry, Cas is a goat, and Sam giggles in the bathroom like a teenaged girl.

Sam’s doing his hair or something, because he’s been in the motel’s bathroom for the last hour or so, and it’s the only reason Dean can think of why he’s still in there. His little brother has got enough hair to actually be able to do something with it, Dean supposes, but waiting for the crapper to open up is getting on his last nerves. All of his other nerves have been eaten, dissolved, or similarly destroyed by the idiotic angel who just appeared on his bed.

“Cas? What the fuck are you doing, man?” Dean is not being quiet to keep Sam in the dark, really he isn’t. He’s just surprised, and obviously surprise makes you speak in a lower register than normal. Obviously.

“I am here about the goats, Dean.” Cas didn’t get the memo that they’re speaking in soft voices, though, because his own rings out loud and clear as it always does, and the natural angel-gravel that he has going on doesn’t mask anything.

“The goats?” Dean asks incredulously. He doesn’t have time for this. It doesn’t matter that he’s been bored out of his mind waiting for Sammy to stop humming and clear the bathroom, or that he’s been trying to keep his mind off the fact that he really needs to use the toilet. He just wants Cas to stop appearing out of nowhere, when he could be doing something he didn’t need anyone else to see. For a quick second, he’s almost glad that Sam’s taken so long. The second doesn’t last very long, though, and he goes back to being irritated by Cas.

“Yes, Dean. The goats. It is a matter of great importance.” Cas says it seriously, like he says everything else.

“Yeah. I get that, Cas, but I seem to have missed the memo or something, because I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

Cas, bless his heart, doesn’t hear the stressed annoyance in his voice, because he continues on like they’re skipping through a field of daisies together or something. It’s all tra-la-la and sunshine to Cas.

“The goats of the town have contracted a disease that puts anyone in contact with them in danger. Many of the townspeople are already trying to eat paper, and relieve themselves in public.”

Dean gets a mental image of an office worker, shoving paper into his mouth almost as quickly as it is printing out with the latest stock report figures, or whatever office people have constantly printing. He wants to laugh, a manly sort of giggle, but then things in his mind go bad, and he sees the same office worker take down his pants on the sidewalk outside and lift his leg over the windowsill of some shop on the road. Maybe this actually is something worth looking into.

“That’s ridiculous, Cas. What sort of disease does that?” Dean tries to make it so that even Cas can hear in his voice just how ridiculous he finds the situation. He fails.

“A supernatural one.” Apparently Cas doesn’t have any patience for Dean’s need for an explanation, and he cocks his head as though he’s asking if Dean needs anything else before he leaves. Dean stares at him in askance.

Cas looks like he’s three seconds from flashing out of the room like a hologram or some shit, but he blinks in an odd way, and suddenly Dean is watching him get to his hands and knees.

Is this supposed to be something kinky? Dean finds himself wondering, before he pulls himself together and remembers just why that’s absolutely not an option. Sam better not get out here, is his second thought, which is funny, because he’s been bitching the exact opposite for the last hour and a half. He’ll misread the situation, like he always does. And maybe someone is answering his prayers, because Sam doesn’t, but it’s not Cas, because Cas has started to chew on the bedspread.

“Damn, Cas. You were in contact with the goats? Why the fuck didn’t you say so? How do we even fix this?” Dean is not pleased. He is less than not pleased. His anger could probably move mountains right now, and he has a feeling that it’s not going to get any better.

“I’m not a vet, Cas.” He adds, in case somewhere inside the shell of a Cas that thinks he’s a goat, the real Cas is listening. “I’m not a doctor, and I don’t know the first thing about curing diseases, let alone the really wacky ones. I could gank something, easy, but you said this is a disease, and diseases are fixed by actual doctors.”

What Dean wants to do is knock on the door, and make Sam fix it. He knocks but Sam’s too busy humming to hear.

“What the Hell, Sammy?” Dean shouts as he pounds on the door, and he thinks he might hear Sam snicker on the other side. He hits the door once more, just to say that he did, and then gives up.

Calling Bobby might not be his best plan ever, because Bobby’s still mad about the last time that he called in the middle of the night about something Cas said, but Dean really doesn’t see any other option. He stares at his phone like it’s made of some sort of alien technology and reaches for it slowly. His hand trembles angrily, and spazzes into a fist before he can touch his fingers to the numbers.

He sits on the edge of the bed and lets out a centering breath, feeling the ocean of peace flow in and then out, and in once more, like he did not learn at the yoga class that he never attended, and if anyone says they saw him there, it wasn’t even him, because he was most definitely in Kansas that day, and not Colorado. The breathing thing works, though, and his head clears a little from the rage that was taking over. He picks up his phone, not afraid that he’ll break it, this time, and dials Bobby’s number without any hesitation at all. Not even a little bit. Dean is a strong macho man who laughs in the face of danger and a little phone call like this won’t put a dent in his stride, no sir.

Dean’s mind may or may not be running commentary of just how strong and macho he is. It certainly makes hearing the line pick up on the other end easier, not that he needs it to be easier, because he’s strong and macho and can deal with anything.

“Singer Salvage,” Bobby says, even though he’s got to know its Dean, what with Caller ID and everything these days.

“Gee, thanks, Bobby. I always knew you loved me,” Dean greets, and he continues on quickly before Bobby hangs up on him. “Cas just dropped by and said there was a some sort of a freaky supernatural goat disease thing going around here. I need to know how to fix it.”

The silence on the other end might be discouraging to anyone who, like, actually knew Bobby, but Dean holds hope that maybe he was just researching or trying not to laugh or something. Dean likes denial. He’s always hoped that as soon as he saves enough retirement money, he’ll get a cottage or houseboat or something and spend the rest of his days there.

He’s in luck. Bobby sighs on the other end of the phone.

“A goat disease? Do we look like we’re doctors?” he asks.

“That’s what I said!” Dean exclaims, “But he didn’t elaborate.” He watches as Cas moves his teeth from the bedspread to the nearby leg of Dean’s blue jeans. He sucks in a breath to keep from yelling, or scolding, or really doing anything that might distract Bobby or alert him to the situation.

Bobby, of all people, understands the angel’s unhelpfulness. He agrees with Dean on that point. In his book, Cas is only good for the mojo he provides on an erratic and illogical schedule, and even then, it’s iffy.

“Fine. I’ll look something up. In the meantime, try to stay away from anything that might give you the disease. I’ll call soon.”

“Yeah, yeah, Bobby,” Dean replies distractedly, “I’ll try.”

The dial tone buzzes.

“What the fuck are you doing, Cas?” he asks a bit more gently than he intends, as he forces Cas’s face away from his legs. “Pants aren’t for eating.”

Cas doesn’t respond. Dean wasn’t expecting him to, but it’s a disappointment all the same.

“Alright, then,” he says, putting his mind back on track. “Let’s get Sammy out of the bathroom.” It’s that or watch pay per view, but he can’t do that with an innocent goat-Cas at his feet. That’s probably, like, against Angel Etiquette or something.

“Sam? You okay in there?” He asks, knocking on the door again. The only answer is a louder hum.

“Only, apparently there’s a whole sort of weirdo goat disease, and I want to be sure you’re not in there, goat-ed-out or something, yeah?” The humming continues. If Dean doesn’t back away soon, he’ll probably have it stuck in his head for the rest of the day. It’s a pretty catchy tune.

“Can goats hum?” Dean asks, turning back to Cas.

Cas doesn’t do much, other than crawling the last two feet between them and nuzzling his leg with a short “Bleeeat.”

“Right. I forgot. Sorry.” Dean shakes his head. “I guess that just leaves the TV.”

He grabs the remote and turns it to something educational, because, hey, impressionable young goat minds. Discovery Channel is wonderful for stuff like that. He’s in luck, as far as Discovery Channel goes. It’s a show about the destructive power of sharks, and if that isn’t slightly interesting, he doesn’t know what is.

Sharks are cool. So is destroying things. It makes for a good combo, no matter what the frightened whines coming from the goat-Cas next to him might say otherwise. Besides, he is in no way softly petting Cas’s hair to soothe him. That would be weird. His hand is only on Cas’s head because … it makes a nice hand-rest. It’s the perfect height. If Cas is going to act all goat and sit like that anyways, Dean better get something like a place to rest his hand. His patience deserves it.

“I’m really hoping Bobby calls back soon,” Dean confides to the goat-angel, definitely not stroking his dark hair even a little. “Not that this doesn’t make some really awesome blackmail material, but this is getting old. And maybe when you’re back to your angel-y ways, you can force Sam out of the bathroom. I really got to pee, man.”

The goat-angel bleats a little in response.

“I get you man. Really I do,” Dean replies, even though he doesn’t know what the fuck Cas meant. He knows it’s important to say something, though, so he does. Then, he turns back to the sharks. They’re biting things now, and, wow, those teeth look dangerous.

It’s just gotten really good – the team on TV found a shark and were cutting into it’s stomach. They’d already pulled out a whole lot of fish, two tires, and a machine gun – when Bobby calls back.

“What do you have?” Dean asks, not taking his eyes off the screen. They’re finding things like shoes and halves of cargo containers, and it’s awesome.

“Alright,” Bobby sets off like talking is a race, “So it looks like these livestock diseases are less rare than we thought. The earliest dated mentions of something like this date back to the Incans. Their records say that …” he trails off as the swell of dramatic shark-stomach-reveal music reaches his ears, “Are you even listening to me, Dean?”

Dean has to replay things back, but he’s got it all. “They’re not rare. Incans. I’m listening.”

“Idjit.” Bobby says fondly, but it still sounds angry. That’s the way most of the things Bobby says, these days, so Dean will take what he can get. “The records say that the only way to fix it is on an individual basis. The goats have to be slaughtered and then the victims have to eat them, and that’s really about it. Only, the difficulty comes from the whole killing-and-eating bit. If you get close enough to kill them, you have less than half a day before your mind turns goat. And once you’re goat, you really don’t want to eat other goat. It’s like cannibalism. So, you’ll need to work quickly.”

“Wait.” Dean says, “You mean you want me to go out and kill some defenseless animals and then eat them? I kill monsters, Bobby, not cute little farm animals. There’s just something wrong with that.”

Bobby snorts, “And you worry about things like that when you’re eating your triple bacon cheeseburger?”

“I’m not the one killing it! It’s already dead!” Dean’s starting to sound worried, and goat-Cas trills a little from the floor. He reaches down to soothe his friend as he listens to Bobby again.

“Yeah, well, you’ll have to screw up your pretty face and do it anyways.” Bobby hangs up, and the click of the call’s end rings in Dean’s ear.

And that’s how Dean ends up grabbing a rifle from the bag at the foot of the bed, yells to the closed bathroom door that he’s out to grab some lunch, and shoves Cas into the Impala.

It’s not as difficult as it should be, shooting innocent goats, because even though they look at him with sad, soulful eyes, all it takes is a pull of a tiny lever, and suddenly, BAM, there’s a goat lying at his feet. Add in four more shots, and they’re all down.

Goat-Cas, in the car where Dean locked him, is crying. Dean would like to say that he doesn’t understand, but the slight itching in his own left eye is making ignoring his own feelings on the matter pretty damn difficult. He’s stronger than tears, though, and hauls the goats to the trailer, secures them, and drives off to a field where he can cook them over a bonfire in peace.

Cas is creating a river of tears in the back of the car. It’s probably flooding the place, and when he stops worrying about water damage in his baby, Dean is struck by the fact that if Cas were an angel right now, he’d be stoic and stone-faced. Being an animal, with the goat-emotions and all that shit must be fucking up his mind.

Dean realizes that he’ll miss goat-Cas, as he hoists the goats onto a spit above a roaring fire. He’s not the best cook, so he’s letting them roast as they were. It’s gross, and the smoke is starting to come off of the fur like nothing else he’s ever smelled, and he’s just glad that he parked the Impala upwind of the whole thing. His jacket may never be the same again.

He lets them cook on the spit for a couple of hours, as he sits in the Impala and listens to some pretty awesome mix tapes. He sings along and dances around, dragging Cas with him every once in a while, because, hey, even goats dance better than angels, no matter what the whole “heavenly choir” thing says otherwise. Maybe it’s rude, making a goat dance in front of other goats as they roast twenty feet away, but Dean’s all about distracting Cas from crying, because he takes it back. A crying Cas is not his preferred version of Cas. That didn’t stop him from taking a picture, though. Or four. Or, okay, maybe more. The point is, though, that he wants Cas back, the regular, angel-y, no-communication skills, angry Solider of the Lord Cas. It’s pretty sad, actually.

On the plus side, he doesn’t need to use the bathroom anymore, because, hey, what else are empty fields for?

The goats are done cooking, or, Dean’s done being patient and takes them down, and after taking a couple bites of the most disgusting meat he’s ever eaten, he tears some out with his fingers and shoves it in Cas’s mouth. He tries not to think too much about having his fingers in Cas’s mouth; it’s difficult, but he does it, and is probably all the saner for it.

He can feel Cas change beside him. One moment he’s a sad, struggling, human-shaped goat, and the next, instant angel.

“Dean?” the newly-returned-angel asks, sounding a bit muffled.

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Why are your fingers in my mouth?” That would explain why he can’t speak properly, thinks Dean, and quickly withdraws them. He doesn’t blush. He’s just flushed, from the heat of the fire that the goats were on. Obviously.

“You needed to eat,” he manages to say steadily. Or an approximation of steadily, which is close enough.

“I don’t need to eat, Dean,” Cas says, looking confused, more about his surroundings than the situation itself, “I’m an angel.”

“Well, yes,” Dean agrees, because it’s easier that way, “but you had some crazy goat disease, and the cure is eating the goats. Apparently.”

“Ok.” Cas allows, and that’s it. There are no questions, no curious looks. There’s just full acceptance, and Dean’s not sure how to handle it. Sammy’s usually a bitch about things like this, and doesn’t stop with the questions.

“So,” Dean continues, because he can’t stop, and he’d rather if Cas were here, listening to him blather on about things he doesn’t really care too much about, than go back off on his own to who-the-Hell-knows-where, “I was thinking that now that you’re back, you could maybe use your angel mojo to get this meat to the others affected by the disease. I’m not really excited about trying to track them all down and force-feed them, wherever they are.”

Cas agrees, because Cas always agrees when he has time on his hands, and doesn’t feel like he’s being taken for granted. He blinks, just once, and Dean watches as the goat meat disappears in front of his eyes. Cas nods, like it’s done, and Dean supposes that he’s somehow done it already.

“The victims should be alright,” Cas says, and Dean just stares for a moment longer before nodding decisively.

“Right. Thanks Cas,” he says, and then pauses, outside of the door to the driver’s seat of the Impala. “Do you want to come back to the motel with me?” he asks, just to be sure. He’s not going to leave Cas alone after this ordeal, unless Cas asks him to.

“That would be acceptable,” Cas says, and they get back to the tiny room and Sam, still in the bathroom.

Dean swears he hears the door slam shut when they get inside, and muffled giggling coming from behind it. The tilt of Cas’s head confirms what he already knows.

“Why is your brother hiding in the bathroom?” the angel asks, and Dean decides to just leave him wondering.

“You’ll have to ask him later.” He wants to say something more, and it’s looking like a goodbye is in order, but the TV is still on in the corner, and it’s more sharks. Dean smiles, toothily.

“You want to watch something about sharks with me?” he asks, and it’s not because he wants to card his fingers through the soft hair again. He doesn’t even think about that. Not even a little.

Cas nods, and Sammy’s still being a teenage girl, and Dean? Well, Dean’s definitely not even a little bit about to make the most of his time hanging out with an angel.

* * *

Cross-posted to fanfiction.net 9 November 2012 


End file.
